Mourning Song.
by Collie
Summary: Drusilla decides it's finally time to leave for good.


  
  
TITLE: Morning Song.   
AUTHOR: Collie.   
EMAIL: collie@blar.org   
SUMMARY: Drusilla decides it's time to leave for good.   
RATING: PG-13.   
FEEDBACK: *Using reverse psychology* No. I don't want it. You don't want to give it to me.   
SPOILERS: Only minor for 'Crush'.   
DISTRIBUTION: YGTS?, Through My Eyes, anyone who already has my stuff archived, and any list archives. Anyone else, just let me know.   
DISCLAIMER: Drusilla belongs to Joss, but I hate his guts for not playing with her more often.   
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Short little ficlet. Drusilla POV. My triumphant return after two months of blockage. Heh. Yeah. My part in Ragna's Gloveslap (#24) at YGTS? (bastardgenres.com/bafa/stones.html) Also makes use of IMPROV #19: noble ­ damn ­ still ­ struggle, and the special 300 IMPROV (which I used rather crappily, IMHO). Unbeta'd. Just spell-checked.   
DEDICATION: To Ragna, for the Gloveslap, and to Kat, whose enthusiasm for breaking her block was so contagious, I just had to catch it. Most of all, to all of the Stoners, past and present. You're all amazing, and even though I'm loosing some of you, you'll always be special to me :) Damn, I'm a sap. Now, on with the angst!   
  
  
The air is still. I never imagined that the stars would stop singing for me.. but the moment my Spike threw me away like a piece of discarded trash.. the moment I smelt the pure white streak of light in him.. I knew that I had failed.   
  
He was my one and only success. My dark and lovely boy. My Prince.   
  
Now, he is my biggest failure.   
  
I feel unclean and horrid. My heart is heavy with tears; overflowing with those which do not spill from my eyes. I can hear them, drip drip dripping onto the grass beside me, and I am huddling under a tree. A great and magnificent tree, with overhanging bowers and long, dancing leaves.   
  
Left to grow wild, even the most tame of house plants will maturate into beasts in nature. My Spike was once a seedling, watered by his mummy's blood, and reared in wild dance and the bright light of the moon. I would coo to him and tend him and raise him up to the light. He grew into the most wild and delicious creature..   
  
But like all wildness, it can be tamed.   
  
"Sing, sweet nightingale.. sing, sweet nightingale.. high above me.."   
  
My voice.. I sound so sad. Like a little lost kitten.. My Spike used to sing to me, that very same tune. After daddy left us. When I would shake and sob and struggle against invisible terrors, and no amount of punishing Miss Edith could calm me.. my Prince would take me in his strong arms and twirl me about, and I would feel lighter than air, and safer than a tiny babe in the womb.   
  
.. three hundred spiders crawling over my heart .. three hundred bugs under my skin ..   
  
.. the worms crawl in ..   
  
The earth smells sweet, like rain and springtime and sunshine.   
  
I miss my Sunshine. Spike ate her. Naughty..   
  
But I am naughty.. I left my noble William. Left him to the Slayer. Her hard fingers and eyes like ice and fire. My boy is too tender and soft for the likes of her. The Angel-beast poisoned her heart, and it has slowly trickled out to numb her all over. She is covered with guilt and black tar and pain. She hides under her shroud, and my Spike has gotten himself stuck in it's viscous blackness.   
  
No..   
  
.. a rag and a bone and a hank of hair .. the fool he called them his lady fair ..   
  
I feel so dreadfully heavy, and my heart is colored melancholy. I am alone. No daddy, no Spike.. even my beautiful grandmummy childe has left me.   
  
I am tired. My bones twist and creak, and my blood runs dry as dust in my veins. My sorrows wail from my chest as keening high as a wolf howl in the distance. Will the morning breeze scatter me across fields filled with flowers and sweet-smelling clover? I remember such sun-bathed places. Will I be sprinkled upon a beautiful lake filled with burning fish of gold, and algae, green as my sister's eyes?   
  
.. clay lies still, but blood's a rover ..   
  
I miss my family. I miss my loves. I miss mummy and papa and my sisters and daddy and grandmum and..   
  
.. my precious blue-eyed demon. My poet, William. My lost soul, with skin of steel and a thirst for life that sent my head spinning. My love, with turbulent eyes that softened just for me, and gentle caresses that lulled me to sleep. Arms that protected me from the dark, and a voice that whispered honeyed words of love.   
  
But my love is dead.   
  
I wonder, will I hear music after I am gone? The beautiful angels in Heaven will strum their harps for me, for I will no longer be a naughty girl. I will no longer be damned. I will go to them, and they will embrace me and take me to the light..   
  
.. and when I greet the dawn, we shall hear how splendid the song of morning is.   
  



End file.
